Chekhov's Gun

Nothing ever absolutely has to happen. The gun

doesn't have to be fired. When our hero sits

on the edge of his bed contemplating the pistol

on his nightstand, you have to believe he might

not use it. Then the theatre is sunk in blackness.

The audience is a log waiting to be split open. The faint

scuff of feet. Objects are picked up, shuffled away.

Other things are put down. Based on the hushed sounds

you guess: a bed, some walls, a dresser. You feel

everything shift. You sense yourself being picked up,

set down. A cone of light cracks overhead. The audience's

eyes flicker toward you like droplets of water.